


One Of These Days I'll Go Down To The River

by WolfieOnAO3



Series: The Brewer's Dictionary of Short Stories [12]
Category: Raffles (TV 1977), Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epistolary, Hurt/Comfort, Letters, Love, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, More angst, Mortality, Near Death, Nostalgia, Old Age, Post-Canon, Reminiscing, True Love, Waiting, but it's all right, death death and more death all right there is DEATH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieOnAO3/pseuds/WolfieOnAO3
Summary: I know,I knowthat if I could just reach out in the right direction, your hand would be there, waiting to be caught in mine. But no matter how far I reach, I can never quite catch you. I would say it is like trying to grasp a shadow, but the thought of that is too much to bear. No. It is simply like trying to catch A.J. Raffles. No one could ever quite manage it.Letters, from Bunny to Raffles.August 15th, 1901andMarch 15th, 1938For the Brewer's Prompt: One Of These Days
Relationships: Bunny Manders/A. J. Raffles
Series: The Brewer's Dictionary of Short Stories [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691002
Comments: 30
Kudos: 8





	1. Back In The Halcyon Days

**Author's Note:**

> _One Of These Days_  
>  _Some time soon; before very long._  
>  \- Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable
> 
> {For Treb! Sorry Not Sorry!}

_August 15th 1901_

_Dearest A.J.,_

_I’m afraid I don’t have anything terribly exciting to write to you about, this week. It's been a week much like every other; the weather is hot, and I can’t bear it. I barely leave my rooms, so long as I can avoid it. The view from my window is, as ever, dismal. I look out onto a shabby street where little happens. Old women scrub their doorsteps after the milkman leaves his bottles and before the children scuff them up again. Nothing interesting. If you were here you'd be bored senseless.  
_

_One of these days, I plan on going down to the river by the Common. You and I had some enjoyable days out on the river, do you remember? We spent a good many hours in that rickety old canoe. I was always convinced it was one good knock away from capsizing; you were right, it never did. Perhaps I'll go in the autumn, when this damned heat lets up. You'd laugh if you could see me right now, Raffles, old boy. My nose is bright pink from the sun, and every patch of exposed skin is awash with freckles. That’s bad enough when you are a boy of fourteen, but at my age it’s completely unreasonable! I tried growing a moustache again, in a feeble attempt to look somewhat more my age, but the sun sent it even lighter than usual - and you know how terribly light my moustaches always grow_ _in anyway - so the damned thing came in practically invisible. And so I am stuck looking like a freckle-faced school boy. You would laugh, if you were here. I wish you were. I wish you would come back, Raffles, I miss you terribly, and-- Ah! See, the youthful face in my mirror is infecting my mind too; I’m_ mooning _._

 _What was I saying? Oh yes. The river. I'll go down there, one of these days. Soon. Sometime. Perhaps nearer to September, when the weather cools off. Towards the end of the cricket season. Or perhaps I'll wait until October, when it's over for good. I don’t particularly care to catch sight of a game; I never enjoyed it much unless_ you _were playing. Do you think badly of me for admitting that? It’s true, though. You always were the highlight of any cricket match_ _for me; so long as you were on the field, my attention was riveted, but as soon as you were out, the appeal of the sport suddenly waned. So perhaps I will go in October. I don't want to see them playing without you._

_I hope you don’t mind me writing to you, still. I know you'd probably tell me that it is a waste of time, if you could. The times I have written to you before, back in the halcyon days, back when you would disappear for weeks with only a scribbled forwarding address, most of my letters ended up being Returned To Sender, having just missed you at wherever you were staying -- if you were ever even staying where you said you were, at all. I never was sure. I wonder if these letters reach you? I suppose I can’t expect any kind of reply, and yet still I write.  
_

_There's still been no one to fill your shoes on the criminal front, you'll be glad to hear; I fear the indolent rich have been growing quite complacent in your absence! Our absence, I suppose, as you would insist. Perhaps I should take it up again, eh? Put them all back on their guard? As long a I don’t go after anything too complicated, or set my sights on the kind of high-stakes prizes that you always go for, I think I could probably pull it off._ _What do you think? You once spoke of the Apotheosis of the Rabbit... Perhaps I will, one of these nights. Perhaps I will, and I'll take you with me; imagine you waiting just outside the door, just below the window, just waiting for me to let down the rope.... Just like old times, eh? Honestly I just need the money. I can't seem to bring myself to write, just yet, except about you. Except to you._

_I ran into Jackson the other evening; one_ _of the few evenings where necessity forced me out of my burrow. Do you remember him? He was one of those loose fish who practically lived at the Club, back when you and I were still members. But always a good sort, Jackson, in his own way. ...So many of those so-called friends from the old days turned their backs on me after it all came out; I wasn’t good enough for them anymore, I suppose -- but you already know all about that. Anyway, what I wanted to say, A.J., was that Jackson didn’t turn away when he saw me. He recognised me, and not only smiled and nodded, but actually stopped in the street to pass the time of day. I can't begin to say what good that did me. Always was a good sort, Jackson._

 _He spoke of you, of course. People always do. Even now I'm still only the supporting act to your leading role. Not that I mind; I wouldn’t have it any other way. And I'm sure you would be quite gratified to hear that you still burn brightly in the popular imagination. So often when people speak to me, and speak to me of you, as they inevitably do, I can always find that surreptitious glint in their eye, and when there is no one else to see, a smile will tug at their lips: “_ A.J. Raffles," _they'll say, “_ I suppose he might have been an awful criminal, but by God was he one hell of a cricketer; and he was always a gentleman!"

 _They're wrong, of course. "Awful criminal" indeed. You were a_ magnificent _criminal. The best of criminals. The absolute Prince of Professors. They know_ nothing. 

_One of these days I'm going to snap and say that to one of them. Tell them that they have no right to talk about you, for good or for ill, not when they have no idea who you are. It infuriates me. You're a little more than a name in a newspaper, to them, whether in the cricket columns or the crime. They cannot even_ begin _to understand what you were, what you are, what you will always be. What you will always be_ to me.

_It’s getting dark, now, and I hate to write by candlelight. Serves me right for starting this so late in the day, I suppose._

_Ah! I almost forgot to tell you - Inspector MacKenzie has retired! Can you believe it? He seemed ancient to me when we first met, though he couldn’t have been far into his forties. Everyone seems old when you are young, and now that I'm old, everyone seems young. Although I suppose I'm not really very old yet. I'm not really old at all. I feel old, Raffles. I feel distressingly old, and dizzyingly young, and out of place with everyone. Is that the price one must pay for cramming too much life int_ o _so few years, do you think? I gladly pay it, but by God is it ever steep.  
_

_I read about it in the evening paper. MacKenzie’s retirement. Rather feels like the end of an era, doesn’t it, in some strange way? It seems odd to think that I should feel a little sad over it, but I do. If I could have told myself back in the early days of our career that one day I would find myself melancholy over the retirement of that blasted man, I would have believed my future-self to be completely insane. I must admit my present self can’t help but wonder the same, at times. If not for MacKenzie, you would never have had to leap off of that boat, I would never have gone to prison, we wouldn’t have wasted those years apart. We wouldn’t have had to-- Ah, but what use is there in regret? Perhaps that's why I feel the pangs of nostalgia hearing of the old Scots Bloodhound’s retirement. A final nail in the coffin of our glorious past. Is that too maudlin? I slip into that coat all too easily, these days.  
_

_They mentioned you, in the paper. I cut out the paragraph and put it with the others._

_It really is getting quite dark now. I can just about begin to make out the stars in the sky, like diamonds on velvet. I can’t see the night sky without thinking of you. I can’t see much without thinking of you._

_I miss you, A.J._

_I can hear what you would be telling me now, if you were here:_

There's really no use in moping about like this, old chap. What good does it do me for you to sit sulking in your bunk? What good does it do y _ou?_ Life goes on, Bunny, and so must you. Fight another day, my fighting rabbit! So buck up, smoke a Sullivan for me, raise a toast to the past, and then go on and _live for yourself_. The future's as bright as you make it, Bunny mine; go on and make it glitter like diamonds, my dear boy. You never deserved anything less.

 _I can almost believe myself capable of just that, when I hear you saying it. And I_ can _hear you saying it, I can hear you as clearly as if you were standing right behind me. If I close my eyes I can feel the warmth of your breath on my neck; I can feel, anticipatory, the weight of your hand on my shoulder as though it were hovering mere inches away, hesitating, waiting. You always did wait for me to move first in those early days, and I was always so cluelessly slow on the uptake. It makes me laugh, thinking about that now. You must have been driven half mad, and yet you were always patient. And now I must be patient. Now I am driven half mad._

 _I know,_ I know _that_ _if I could just reach out in the right direction, your hand would be there, waiting to be caught in mine. But no matter how far I reach, I can never quite catch you. I would say it is like trying to grasp a shadow, but the thought of that is too much to bear. No. It is simply like trying to catch A.J. Raffles. No one could ever quite manage it._

_It really is far too dark to write, now, but it is always so difficult to stop. You should really get a telephone, old boy; it would be much easier, you know._

_No. It would be easier if you just_ came back. _You've done it before._

 _Why did you have to do it, Raffles? Why couldn’t you have kept your head down? Why did it have to be so_ _pointless?_ _  
_

 _I cannot, I_ will not _forgive you for that, Raffles. I have always forgiven you everything, but not that. Not this._

_At least, not until I see you again. Then you will talk me around, like you always do. Convince me that it was all part of some masterplan to steal the pearls from the Gates of Heaven itself, to steal diamonds forged in the fires of Hell. Then, perhaps, when you smile and laugh and explain that this was all just another of your plans, then I will forgive you, as I always do. As I always did._

_One of these days I will go down to the river. When the oppressive, August, African sun stops blinding me and reminding me of the sounds of the guns._

_Yes. I will go down to the river, and I will try to think of better times.  
_

_One of these days, my dearest A.J.. One of these days._

_Always,_

_Your Rabbit._


	2. The River You Shall Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 15th, 1938.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Treb, thank you for the inspiration. I blame you for this entirely.

March 15th, 1938

_Dearest A.J.,_

_I can’t write, anymore, I’m afraid. Can’t seem to get my hand to keep hold of the pencil. And words don’t come as easily as they once did, not when I try to get them out of my head and into the world. But, you know, I reckon I can think of what I'd write to you and you’ll get it just the same. Like praying, I suppose, although I've never had all that much time for God. I didn't need Him. I had you.  
_

_I'm dying, you see.The doctor says I don’t have long. He didn't tell me that directly, of course, but I overheard him when he thought I was asleep. At one time in my life being told such a thing would have terrified me. At another time I would have welcomed it with open arms and a glass of brandy. I’m not sure how I feel about it now. A mixture of both, I think. Perhaps there is something to be said about the way you did it. Less time to worry. Less time for your emotions to get all in a muddle. Less time to think. You always said I was a nervous batter, and yet you got sent to play first. Hardly seems fair._

_Camilla is with me now, I think. I find it hard to -- focus on things. But I think she's here; someone usually is. They're very good to me, Raffles -- because of you, in gratitude to_ you. _Even so long after your death, you're still finding ways to look after me._

 _When they found out that I was unwell, Camilla and Teddy insisted that I move into their country house with them, for the clearer air and the company. You must remember Camilla? She certainly remembers you; and Teddy, too, of course, though I hardly need to tell you_ that _. Their eldest grandson is named Arthur, you know, as was his father before him. I wonder what you'd say about that, old boy? It was quite the scandal when they both openly owned to who the lad was named after, though I think that now, after everything, more people understand than denounce. Times have changed, Raffles, as all things do. Except of course, for you._

_But what was I saying? Oh, yes, little Arthur is a wonderful lad; he comes and reads to me, sometimes, as I used to read to him, when I was still able. He is so full of mischief and as bright as anything; so very like you in that regard. But he has no taste for cricket whatsoever; I believe he prefers mathematics! Let us hope that's not the only way in which his life diverges from that of his namesake, eh? His middle name is Harry._

_Camilla asked me to tell you that she said "hello", by the way. I think I must murmur your name, sometimes, out loud.  
_

_I'm sorry that I haven’t written to you much, these past few years. I remember when I used to write to you every week. Although I suppose I shouldn’t apologise; I only did as you asked me. It took me a while to get out of the habit, but I got there in the end, if only because I knew you wouldn't have wanted me to dwell and mope. I never was very good at going against what you wanted._

_I’ve spent my life living in the belief that I was carrying you with me. In my memories, in our stories in my books, in the ripples of you that continued to spread through me. I made myself live because that’s what you wanted me to do; but then, after a while, I lived because_ I wanted to, _too. For myself, and for the world, not only for you. You persuaded me to live, Raffles, and you were right to do so; but now I'm scared to die, and that's your fault, too. You always were too persuasive by half, A.J._

_I could use some of that persuasion now; some of that courage you always managed to find in me when I couldn't find it in myself. Please, Raffles, if there is some way, any way -- I’m dying. I’m dying, and I never was very good at doing things without you. I always did need your guiding direction on the job, your guiding voice in the chaos, your guiding hand in the dark._

_I still do. After all of these years, I still need you; still miss you; still love you. And it's_ _getting dark now, Raffles, but I still can’t seem to catch you through the shadows._

 _It’s not sporting! It's not fair! I've been patient, A.J.,_ _I've waited, I've_ lived! _i_ _’m holding out my hand, Raffles. Be a sportsman and take it, finally. Please?_

* * *

-I say, that’s hardly playing fair, Bunny.

_Raffles?_

-Accusing me of being unsportsmanlike, indeed! I have followed the rules _perfectly,_ II'l have you know! And then you go and accuse me of not being sporting? That’s a fine how d’you do, isn’t it?

_Raffles! Is it you? Is it really you?  
_

_-_ Who else would it be?

_I- I don't know. A dream. Or, well, Saint Peter, traditionally. I think. I never did pay much attention in Sunday School._

-Hah! Would you prefer a Saint?

_Did I ever?_

-Oh, I’ve missed you, Bunny.

_I’ve missed you too._

-How are you?

 _Dying_.

-Ah, yes. But apart from that?

_Oh. Well, apart from that… Not too bad._

-Not too bad! By Jove, I see you haven't lost your talent for understatement! You’ve done _wonderfully_ , my clever little rabbit. All of that living, all of those books, all of that success! I'm proud of you, Bunny. And, of course, you have made me even more famous than I already was. Well played, my dear chap!

_Made you more infamous, more like._

-Fame, infamy, life, death... it’s all just a matter of perspective, when you get down to brass tacks.

_I suppose so. I-- I'm sorry, Raffles, I'm afraid I can't think very clearly..._

-No, I don't expect you can. It'll pass. Be patient just a little while longer, Bunny. It'll be all right.

_...Raffles?_

-Yes?

_Why do you look so young? Your hair, your face, you--_

-I’m how you chose to remember me.

_Oh. Are you?_

-Do you recall the night I got caught by that great American brute, Barney Maguire? Or, more correctly, the night he got caught by me?

_I think so. I couldn’t before but-- But yes! Yes, of course I remember. How could I forget?_

-I shall certainly never forget it; the night I was rescued by my rabbit in shining armour! Well, you came to the Albany the next morning, do you recall? After I burgled your flat. 

_Oh yes! Of course I remember. You did do that!_

\- I did. And so you stormed over, and you banged on my door and--

 _And you answered it, as cool as could be! I remember! And you were as fresh and immaculate and delicious and delightful as Spring herself. I wished in that moment that I could have a painting or a photograph of you just like that. You never looked so-- so-- so quintessentially_ Raffles-ish _as you did right then. I wanted to keep hold of that picture forever._

-And so you did; and here I am. 

_That was in March too, wasn’t it?_

-Yes.

_It's March now, I think._

-The Ides themselves, if you can believe it. You really are a theatrical little cuss, aren’t you, Bunny mine? Always did have a flair for dramatic narrative. That’s why your books did so well, I don't doubt! Now, Bunny, not to be hideously prosaic about it all, but you don’t have any Sullivans on you, do you? I'm -- well, not dying for a smoke, for obvious reasons, but I am as keen as knives to have one!

_Yes, I think I do, actually. I keep them in my pocket. Can’t smoke them any more, myself, but I always keep my cigarette case full. For sentimentality’s sake._

-Oh, good show, that rabbit! I haven’t had one of those in the Gods only know how long!

_Thirty-eight years, one month, and ten days._

-By Jove, is it really as long as all that?

_It felt like a thousand, to me. And yet somehow, too, only like a few days. ...I must look so strange to you. So old._

-You look just as I remember you best, Bunny. You look fourteen and throwing a strop as I try to teach you how to bowl without hopping on the release; you look sun-burnt and freckled, grinning at me from the stands as I walk from the crease at Lords; you look awed and relieved and beautiful in that pokey little flat in Earl's court that first day I came back from the dead; and you look as peaceful as an angel, fast asleep in your armchair in front of the fire at Ham Common. You look, Bunny, in short, exactly like my dear old rabbit. ...My _God_ , but I've missed that face!

_I’m young again?_

-Not _technically_.

_Am I dead?_

-No. Not quite

_...Raffles?_

-What?

 _What happens… after? Where-- Where do you_ go _?_

-I don’t now.

_What do you mean you don’t know? How can you not know? You're dead! You've been dead for--_

-Thirty-eight years, one month, and ten days.

_Exactly!_

-So?

_So--! So how can you not know what happens next?_

-I -- I suppose I -- The thing is, Bunny, you might say I -- put that bit off. In a manner of speaking.

_Can you do that?_

-If you're determined enough, evidently.

_Like -- purgatory?_

I suppose you could call it that, though I'm not certain death is all quite how our bible-quoting pals like to say it is. I've certainly heard hide nor hair of a Heaven nor a Hell; no Pearly Gates, no Saint Peters, no thrilling adventures into the nine circles with your poet of choice. Rather disappointing; I was hoping to catch up with Keats.

_But -- why, Raffles? Why would you do that? What have you been waiting for, for all this time?_

-Bunny, you ass. What do you think?

_I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking you! And don’t sigh at me Raffles, I'm having a bloody stressful day._

-I was waiting, Bunny, because _you_ were waiting.

_What?_

-You were waiting to catch me. I was --waiting to be caught. I was hardly going to go off on this adventure without you, was I? Or leave you to-- No. That's not the thing for a sportsman to do, and certainly not me. Not ever. It wouldn't be cricket. We go hand in hand over the top or not at all, my fighting rabbit.

_Raffles?_

-Yes?

_If I reach out my hand now, will I--_

-Yes.

_And -- this is real?_

-As real as anything else ever was, Bunny, for what that's worth.

_Raffles -- take my hand._

Are you sure you’re ready?

_I’ve been ready for thirty-eight years._

-That’s not true.

_You’re right. It’s not. But I am now. I'm not afraid, anymore. I'm ready.  
_

-You're certain?

_More certain than I have ever been about anything. ...I think._

-Well, then; once more, unto the breach, dear Bunny, once more! Shall we?

 _What do you think it will... be_ like?

-No idea. That's the fun of it!

_I think -- I think I'd like to go back to the river. Remember the river? By the cottage at Ham Common. That's what I want. I want the river by the cottage at Ham Common.  
_

-Then the river you shall have, my dearest rabbit.

_...I forgive you, by the way._

-For what?

_For getting shot._

-Ah _._

_A.J.?_

-Yes?

_I love you. Just so you know._

-...Come, Bunny, there will be plenty of time for that later. Don't go saying your Last Words on me.

 _Will there be_? _Time_?

-I'm sure there will. That is -- I hope there will.

_So do I. God knows we wasted enough of it, between us. We're surely owed some of it back._

-Bunny?

_Yes?_

-... I love you, too. I’ve loved you from the moment you burst into my rooms holding a gun to your head; before that, even, right since school, albeit in a different way. What I mean to say, is that you were the most fascinating creature to ever fall at my doorstep, and you have remained so ever since. You made my life worth so much more, Bunny. Quite why you stuck with me all these years I never quite figured out, but I am both glad and honoured that you did.

_... ....A.J. Raffles, you had better hold out your damned hand right now, before I jump up from my deathbed and throw myself at you. And that would ruin the art of the piece completely._

-Oh, well, now, we can't have that, can we? ...Bunny Manders, may I have the most exquisite honour of taking your hand?

* * *

'Mr. and Mrs Garland -- It's time.' The doctor looked up from his patient as he finished gently checking Harry Manders' waning pulse, watching the slowing of his laboured breath.

Teddy Garland turned his head and inhaled sharply; his wife laid an aged, yet still elegant, hand upon her husband's arm, and as he met her clear, strong gaze, he nodded and bolstered himself up. Together they sat beside the bed, each laying a hand upon the fading patient's arm.

'Harry,' came the steady voice of the grand old lady, 'I know I speak for Teddy as well as myself when I say that we owe -- _so much_ to you, and your bravery and kindness. There is nothing we could ever have done to repay either you or Mr. Raffles, but -- but then I don't think either of you ever expected repayment, did you? I don't -- I don't truly know what fate awaits us, after death, but I would like to believe in a Heaven. If there is such a thing, Harry, you've more than earned your place. You and Arthur--"

Camilla Garland broke away with a hitching sob, falling into her husband's arms. 

'What Millie means to say, Harry, is -- you've waited long enough, old boy. God knows how you've done it; I'd be lost a day without my dear wife, let alone-- But then, you always were made of stronger stuff than me. Nothing but the best for old A.J., eh what?' Teddy chuckled, even as the tears pooling in his eyes spilled down onto to cheeks, still bronzed, though now aged and whiskered, too. 'Go and find him, Harry. Go and find A.J. Raffles, and when you do, as I _know_ you will, tell him Teddy Garland sends his very best, and that I hope he's thrashing the angels at cricket!'

'We both love you so much, Harry,' said Camilla quietly. 'We both love both of you. ...Goodbye, Harry. And tell your A.J. I said hello.'

* * *

In the cool crisp air of a beautiful March morning in Richmond, or somewhere rather like it, A.J. Raffles held out his hand. And, as the sun sparkled across the waters of the Thames, and the sound of leather meeting willow wood echoed in the distance, Bunny Manders reached up and caught that dear old hand with his own. 

'Hello, rabbit.'

'...Hello, A.J.'


End file.
